Robert Browning Quotes

In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.

The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.

Once more on my adventure brave and new.

Any nose may ravage with impunity a rose.

Sing, riding 's a joy! For me I ride.

Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!

A people is but the attempt of many To rise to the completer life of one; And those who live as models for the mass Are singly of more value than they all.

Take away love and our earth is a tomb.

Of what I call God, And fools call Nature.

I trust in Nature for the stable laws Of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant And Autumn garner to the end of time. I trust in God,-the right shall be the right And other than the wrong, while he endures. I trust in my own soul, that can perceive The outward and the inward,-Nature's good And God's.

Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.

It's wiser being good than bad; It's safer being meek than fierce: It's fitter being sane than mad.

Talent should minister to genius.

Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.

The only fault's with time; All men become good creatures: but so slow!

A minute of success pays for years of failure.

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was of us, Burns, Shelley, were with us. They watch from their graves!

The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!

There is no truer truth obtainable by Man than comes of music

Who knows but the world may end tonight

What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

Paracelsus At times I almost dream I too have spent a life the sages’ way, And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance Ages ago; and in that act a prayer For one more chance went up so earnest, so Instinct with better light let in by death, That life was blotted out — not so completely But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, Dim memories, as now, when once more seems The goal in sight again.

We find great things are made of little things, And little things go lessening till at last Comes God behind them.

A lion may die of an ass's kick.

'Tis only when they spring to Heaven that angels reveal themselves to you.

Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed It's petals up.

If you can sit at set of sun And count the deeds that you have done And counting find oneself-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him that heard. One glance most kind, Which fell like sunshine where he went, Then you may count that day well spent.

How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!

Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.

Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.

Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop.

A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.

But facts are facts and flinch not.

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.

Ever judge of men by their professions. For though the bright moment of promising is but a moment, and cannot be prolonged, yet if sincere in its moment's extravagant goodness, why, trust it, and know the man by it, I say,- not by his performance; which is half the world's work, interfere as the world needs must with its accidents and circumstances: the profession was purely the man's own. I judge people by what they might be,- not are, nor will be.

Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.

The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

"With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart" once more! Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up, And be discharged, and straight wound up anew? No! grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets: May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.

So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!

Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?

Be sure that God Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart.

Truth never hurts the teller.

Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!